


Atlas

by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor)



Series: Valentine's Kisses 2019 [20]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Injury, M/M, Mild Angst, Non-Explicit Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 08:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17504861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/Karasuno%20Volleygays
Summary: A wrist isn't the only thing injured when Oishi tries and fails to hide it from Eiji.





	Atlas

It’s not about the tennis. It was never about that.

Sometimes, Eiji can’t stand watching Oishi do this to himself. Every day, Oishi forges ahead like there’s nothing wrong with his wrist; every night, he grits his teeth and wraps it before bed, hiding the angry red flesh there like that will somehow make it stop existing.

But it does exist, and Eiji doesn’t know how much longer he can take it. High school is nearly over, with the rest of their lives waiting for them just beyond graduation. Oishi is putting it all on the line for the sake of a few more medals he’ll never hang up because all he cares about is being certain in the knowledge that he never let anyone down.

Yet as Eiji watches Oishi bite his lip every time his fingers curl around the grip of his racquet, he can’t help but think that Oishi is letting them both down.

The Kanto Tournament is in full swing, and as expected, the Seigaku High School boys team is plowing through the ranks. Only a handful of teams remain, and Seigaku is on top of most of them, as expected. The Golden Pair is undefeated this tournament, with most of their sets ending 6-1 or 6-0 and no third set. Eiji plays harder than ever in these games so it can end before Oishi’s wrist gives out.

Today is different, though. They aren’t playing some nameless school who is making their first and last appearance in the Top 8. This is Hyoutei, the team’s Silver Pair, who can and have beaten Seigaku’s Golden Pair.

Three games in, and Eiji can see it all falling apart in front of him. Oishi’s face is pinched, his serves weak, and his volleys nowhere near his usual standard of accuracy. The added stress of Ootori’s monstrous power is leaching Oishi’s strength at an exponential rate.

After the first set, which ended 6-4 in favor of Hyoutei, Shishido approaches Eiji behind the official’s tower. “Hey, uh, is he gonna be okay?”

Eiji doesn’t ask him how he knows; it’s obvious to anyone who isn’t bent on not wanting to see it. “We’re always okay,” Eiji lies, unwilling to open that can of worms to an opponent mid-match. “You worry about Godzilla over there hitting you with the ball and maiming you for life.”

Shishido snorts. “I see. Good luck, Kikumaru. You’re gonna need it.”

Their racquets tap together in salute, a familiar gesture between opponents who have been chasing each other for as long as they’ve been playing. After he drinks too much water back at his own bench, Eiji wonders how many of their teammates know Oishi is struggling and say nothing about it. If an opponent sees it in fifteen minutes, how could their friends miss it after weeks and weeks.

The only conclusion Eiji can reach is that they do see it, but just as Eiji is implicit in not remarking upon it, neither do they.

Oishi, as it turns out, is not as fine as Eiji had led Shishido to believe. One set down and halfway to losing another one despite both their best efforts to play through it, the penny drops.

A missile of a volley from Ootori speeds over the net and right at Oishi. Not to the side, but right at him because in his haze of pain his feet are not quick enough to get there. So Oishi does what Oishi does best: adapt.

His wrist already at a strange angle in the effort to return the hit, the moment the ball barrels into the racquet strings, there is no one in a hundred meter radius who doesn’t hear Oishi’s involuntary cry of agony as the abused tendons and cartilage finally give way.

The racquet clatters to the rubberized pavement, and Eiji’s along with it so he can stop Oishi from falling straight to his knees.

Oishi gasps and pants, eyes screwed shut as Eiji slowly eases him to the ground, surprised to find Shishido on Oishi’s other side to aid the process. 

“Oishi, you dumbass,” Shishido mutters, and Eiji can’t help but choke out a pained laugh. “You should listen to your partner.”

Once Oishi is safely seated on the court, Shishido makes way for their coach, who is rushing onto the court. “What happened?” he asks Eiji.

“It’s his wrist,” Eiji says, swallowing hard at the sight of bruises blossoming on the red, swollen flesh. “It finally gave out.”

“Gave out?” The coach blinks in surprise. “He never said anything about his wrist being injured.”

Something inside of Eiji snaps, and he bolts to his feet. “Never said anything?” he roared. “He didn’t have to! Everyone else could see it, but you let him play in match after match. Now he can’t even pick up a racquet.”

The coach staggers backward at Eiji’s uncharacteristic show of anger, but it flows hot and smoldering in Eiji’s entire being. He is ready and willing for Round Two of screaming at his coach enough to get him kicked off the team for sure when a hand closes around his. Oishi’s hand — at least, his good one.

“Eiji, don’t,” he rasps. Oishi takes a shuddering breath and tightens his grip on Eiji’s fingers. “I chose this. This is my fault, not his.” A stray tear trickles down Oishi’s cheek. “I didn’t want to . . . didn’t want to —”

“Let anyone down?” Eiji interjects, and Oishi has the good grace to avert his gaze. “Oishi, you’re the smartest person I know, but right now, you’re definitely the dumbest. Why would you being hurt and taking care of yourself be letting anyone down? The real letdown is that you think stupid stuff like this matters more than you.” 

Oishi’s face crumples, and Eiji let’s instinct take over. He throws his arms around Oishi, and they cry themselves out on each other’s shoulders for the whole of Tokyo’s high school tennis scene to witness. He doesn’t care because it’s Oishi.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Eiji hears the official counting down how much time Oishi has to get back up and resume the match. Neither of them budge, and it’s just a formality, anyway. Oishi isn’t getting up for anything but to leave, even if Eiji has to punch his lights out to do it.

Their teammates gathered around, Eiji almost swats away Momoshiro, who is trying to help Oishi back to his feet. For once, Kaidou isn’t glaring at his own doubles partner, who Eiji still doesn’t know if he actually dislikes anymore but still spews venom in his direction on principle. Instead, he picks up both their racquets and follows them as they lurch slowly off the court. Oishi is unsteady on his feet from a mixture of exhaustion and what Eiji reckons is excruciating pain.

Oishi watches stonily as the singles players begin their portion of the match. Seigaku just barely wins the battle of the Singles One stars. Fuji is truly a wonder to behold when he is motivated, and judging by how many times his eyes wander over to lock with Eiji’s and his expression softens, Eiji thinks Fuji is probably as motivated as he needs to be to take down Atobe at his strongest.

The bus back to the school is damn quiet. Nobody looks at them, and Eiji doesn’t have to think hard to know why. They  _ all  _ let this happen, Eiji included, and the well of shame in Eiji’s gut is deep and dark. 

Once the rest of the team disperses, Eiji ushers Oishi into the back of the coach’s car and they head for the nearest hospital to get Oishi the treatment he had to all but destroy himself in order to allow himself to accept it.

Three hours later, Oishi is medicated and suitably chastised by the attending for being so careless. The stiff brace on his wrist is hard not to spot, stark white against Oishi’s sun-bronzed skin. Eiji can’t look away from it.

Oishi’s parents arrive soon after, and Eiji gets in the car with Oishi and nobody objects. Most of Oishi’s dad’s attention is directed at scolding his son for being so thoughtless and stupid and everything else Eiji has been internally railing at his partner for. His mom is very quiet, which in Eiji’s experience means she’s probably very angry. 

Eiji takes both their bags straight upstairs once they reach the Oishi household. Oishi’s room is the same since the last time Eiji was there, and both of them feel out of place. There isn’t a thread out of place anywhere, but there is a long and livid rent between the two of them. 

Oishi tries and fails to peel off his sweaty uniform. The required motions are something Eiji imagines he will be able to do unaided for a little while. He doesn’t hesitate to step in and assist, and Oishi doesn’t even attempt to stop him. One piece at a time, Eiji strips away the layers of fabric until Oishi is standing in just his underwear. 

Usually, when Eiji sees more of Oishi than meets the public eye, Oishi blushes a bright shade of red. Now, however, while his uninjured limbs robotically comply with Eiji’s directions, he simply stares at the wall nearby where old pictures of their past teams hang neatly and in chronological order. 

The two of them are always standing together, of course.

At last, the ice breaks. “Eiji, I —”

“Don’t you even  _ dare _ say you’re sorry,” Eiji cries, his voice cracking. “We’re a long way past sorry.”

Oishi’s gaze drifts down to their feet, one pair bare and the other still in knee socks. “I know I messed up.”

“Good.” Eiji ushers Oishi into the small bathroom adjoining his room and starts stripping off his own clothes. Oishi watches with wide eyes while Eiji gets the shower going, a lukewarm stream that won’t further irritate Oishi’s inflamed wrist. “Get in.” 

Gingerly removing the wrap and brace, Oishi complies. With Eiji’s assistance, he manages to take a reasonably quick shower and wangle his way into a fresh change of clothes as well as the brace. Eiji snares himself some light cotton shorts and a well-worn old t-shirt that no longer holds Oishi’s broadening shoulders. 

Oishi’s mother brings them both dinner, not bothering to demand they join the family like she usually does. Either she’s too upset to keep her cool or she doesn’t like to see her son in pain. Either way, Eiji can relate.

Eiji cleans up the remains of their meal onto Oishi’s nightstand and drops to a seat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, and Oishi sits next to him. It’s a long, quiet, terse handful of minutes before one of them finally spoke. The words Eiji has bottled up — for hours, for days, for  _ weeks  _ — ooze out.

“I knew you were hurting and I let you do this anyway,” he starts, “and I hate that you made me feel like that was the right thing to do because it wasn’t.”

Oishi nods. “I know.”

Eiji shivers despite the lingering summer heat in the room. “And the rest of the guys knew it too, but they trusted you to know your limits. You ruined that.”

“I —” Oishi covers his face with his good hand. “I know I did.”

The despair in Oishi’s voice claws at Eiji’s chest, and his irritation melts into something more malleable. He nuzzles the muscled curve of Oishi’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do.”

Oishi presses a kiss to the crown of Eiji’s head and croaks, “Neither do I, but please let me try.”

Familiar fingers course through his hair, and slowly, the world begins to untopple itself. Oishi is just Oishi, and Eiji is just Eiji. They aren’t the Golden Pair who lost because of Oishi’s stupid decision. They’re the Golden Pair who fell in love like in some sort of storybook in this very room, where they kissed for the first time, made love for the first time. That is the Golden Pair that Eiji hopes is strong enough to get past this.

The two of them nestle together on the bed atop the covers, the air too humid and uncomfortable for blankets, but their skin touches everywhere they can manage. It’s barely nine at night, but the day has dragged on so relentlessly that Eiji is exhausted to his very core.

The night is even longer than the day, with Oishi angering his injury by moving around in his sleep. Finally, Eiji pushes Oishi flat on his back and sprawls out on his chest so he can no longer squirm his way into rolling right onto his wrist again.

They’re both hollow-eyed and foggy come dawn, but it’s Sunday so the entire day can go straight to hell, Eiji thinks. His parents already know he’s here and why, and the notifications on his silenced phone show a text from Oishi’s mom:

_ Let me know if you need anything. _

Like her son, her texting grammar is too proper and Eiji coughs out a broken laugh. “God, I wish it was this easy to chase away  _ my _ parents.”

“We should talk,” Oishi blurts, quickly killing the mediocre attempt at a lighter mood. “I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”

Eiji starts. “What do you mean, what’s going to happen now? Do you think I’m breaking up with you?” He pales. “Do you want to break up with me?”

“No!” Oishi slaps a hand to his forehead and sighs. “I’m such an idiot, Eiji.”

“I won’t disagree.”

Oishi flinches but forges ahead. “I was so wrapped up in the idea of being needed by everyone, I never stopped to think that it maybe isn’t what  _ you  _ needed from me.” 

Eiji’s hand drifts over to cover Oishi’s, which is balled up into an intense fist atop his thigh. “Oishi, you’re a crappy liar. Just tell me the truth, even if it’s hard for me to hear.” He squeezes his eyes shut and buts his forehead against Oishi’s shoulders, which will never be strong enough to bear the weight of all the things he takes on. The thought that he keeps on trying to carry more and more every day makes Eiji want to kick him in the shin so he can drop it all.

“I promise.” Resolve is thick in Oishi’s voice. Eiji doesn’t know how long it will last, but he does know that Oishi will damn well try to see it through. 

Their eyes meet, and their lips follow suit. It’s a soft, feathery thing, and Eiji loves every second of it. Feelings that words don’t exist to describe mingle and course through him. 

Kikumaru Eiji loves many things. He loves scrambled eggs and snowcones and puppies and prawns. He loves his mom and dad and every single one of his annoying siblings. He loves jokes and jaunty tunes and the light feeling he gets when he laughs. 

But more than most of that, he loves Oishi, and Oishi loves him, too. 

They’ve been branded on each other for what seems like forever. The scraps of Eiji’s life he finds around are all littered with things he associates with Oishi. 

Every time he sees a gossip magazine with the latest news on some celebrity power couple, Eiji wonders if Oishi has read it yet because he’s so in love with the idea of love. He never forgets the pure joy on Oishi’s face when there’s a crisp white layer of fresh snow, unmarred by foot traffic or snow plows.

Whenever Eiji gets himself off, he can’t help but wish Oishi were there to share his pleasure. 

He loves everything about Oishi, even when he’s a terrible boyfriend by scolding Eiji for showing up late to dates or eating a little bit more than half of their meat platter when they splurge on good yakiniku or pretending he isn’t in pain until he drives himself into the ground.

Eiji pulls away breathless, and his attention drops to the injured wrist lying lamely in Oishi’s lap. He carefully lifts it to his lips and he smiles. “Stupid Oishi. As if you could live without me.”

“I could survive, but I’d never call it living.” 

Heart stuttering at Oishi’s words, Eiji’s gaze darts back up to meet Oishi’s. Ever the romantic, Oishi says stuff like that from time to time and Eiji takes it in stride. However, this is different. There’s a rawness in the way the words roll off of his tongue, a truth wrenched from him rather than volunteered. 

Something Oishi probably tells himself he will never say, but he says it anyway because Eiji really, desperately needs to hear it. 

Oishi’s left hand cups Eiji’s cheeks. “I love you, Eiji. I hope you know that, even when I am being stupid.”

“You talk too much,” Eiji purrs before pushing Oishi onto his back and straddling his lap. 

One messy half an hour later, Oishi is still sprawled on the bed and Eiji is draped on top of him, feathering kisses to Oishi’s jaw.

“Eiji, I really am sorry I tried to hide it.” Oishi nudges Eiji’s chin upward and looks him in the eye. “I need you to know that.”

“I know.” Eiji is grinning until he can feel the stickiness in his shorts start to seep through the fabric. “I think we need another shower.”

“Yeah.” Oishi once again lets himself be dragged into the shower, but there are no morose silences or angry words to be thrown around. There is only them and the water, and everything else washes down the drain, unheeded and unimportant.

  
  
  



End file.
